Adventures in Sleepwalking
by KleioVerity
Summary: After Trenzalore, Clara had developed the most bizarre habit of falling asleep in the most random of places.
1. Chapter One

Clara had developed the most bizarre habit of falling asleep in the most random of places. It had started a week after Trenzalore. The more often he stumbled upon her perched somewhere she ought not to be, slumbering the deep sleep of the REM paralyzed unconscious, the more troubled he was becoming at her behavior. And, even more troubled that he thought the TARDIS might have a something to do with it.

The first time he found her seemed unassuming enough— asleep on one of the oversized lounges in the library, nestled into a pile of pillows, spooning one almost as for dear life—and, the first time, he found it rather endearing and adorable. Already in her pajamas—a thin, soft nightgown that looked more like a flimsy dress. Her hair fell messily into her face, and the expression made by her cheeks and lips mushed up against the pillow would have been mortifying to her, but, the Doctor simply smiled, utterly enraptured. Approaching her quietly, he gently tugged the pillow out of her arms, causing her to shift absently, and contort into another position. Sliding his arms under the small of her back and the bend in her knees, he carried her back to her bedroom, tucked her in, and shook his head amusingly at his Impossible Girl. Returning to the library, the Doctor found he had forgotten his purpose for coming there at all.

The next time was a bit stranger. Rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt, he descended the steps to the underside of the console to fiddle with something that more than likely needed no fiddling, and found her slouched into his mechanic's swing. Feet dangling as her petite frame could not quite reach the ground, and her head resting against the hinges and straps from which it was suspended. Tangled and loosened wire dangled around her like mechanical vines. How she had managed to sneak past him in the console room, he had to clue—leading to the beginning of theories and speculations that Clara and Sexy were conspiring against him. But, that was absurd, right? After what Clara had been through—been through for him, he reminded himself sadly- she had every right to be having a few erratic behaviors as she worked through her demons and nightmares. Once again, he scooped her up, prying her little hands from where they clung to the straps.

It was a marvel to him how small and light she felt in his arms. How a spirit as extraordinary and tremendous as hers could be constrained in such a diminutive package was a source of wonder to him. Not that he would dare say that to her—Clara always got tetchy when he made short cracks, no mater how funny and accurate they were- overly sensitive in his opinion. Things could be worse—she could have been over a millennia old, yet stuck with the face of twelve year old.

Depositing her for the second night in her room, he drew down the sheets, and she stirred in his arms as he placed her in bed. Turning in towards his arms, she adhered herself to his chest, fists gripping the fabric of his shirt, making it damn near impossible to extricate himself from her grip. Not knowing what else to do, he placed her on the bed, maneuvering himself out from her embrace in an awkward dance. But, he lingered this time, slowly drawing the sheets up over her slight frame, and after a few moments of contemplation, he dropped a chaste kiss on the crown of her head. It made him blush, and he jumped back pensively expecting to see that _"just what do you think you're doing"_ look she expressed with down turned brows and a quirk on her lips. So, when she did not stir, he took his leave before further testing is luck, and returned to fiddle with the… what the hell was he going to fiddle with again?

Another day, another adventure— that's what the doctor ordered. And, getting back to the the old routine seemed to be the remedy Clara called for to sooth her troubled mind.

After a quick excursion, Clara did seem to find peace, at least for a couple of days. She would stretch and yawn, making a show of it that she was off to bed, and disappear down the hall to, as he had always previously assumed, her own room. Once she had drifted off to sleep, he would slip inside to check on her, happy to find her in her own bed, and not say, on the top of the kitchen table, where he unbeknownst to him, he would find her in a couple days. But, for these days of relative peace, he would scoot over the chair that sat nearby, taking her hand and gently brushing his thumb across her knuckles, resting his own eyes in the dim light of the TARDIS, listening to the sound of both his girls breathing. The passive, repetitive sounds lulled him into a immovable trance—not sleeping, mind you, not when there were important things to be done, like watch out for Clara. Who knows where she might end up? For all he knew, the TARDIS was being mean, and switching her room while she was sleeping. The audible indignant sigh of the TARDIS huffed at his accusations.

Then there was the day he found her passed out on the kitchen table, arm wrapped around the empty bowl in which she usually mixed her soufflé catastrophes. The next day, he found her sprawled out on the stairs of the wardrobe, wrapped tightly in his green trench coat, using the striped scarf from his fourth regeneration as a pillow. He had taken her back, as always, and sat with her the rest of that night and the next without incident. But, the day he had to draw the line was the day he happened to pass the swimming pool, and catching movement out of the corner of his eyes, backtracked a few slow steps, disbelief marring his face, to find Clara floating by on an inflatable red mat, still in her nightgown, and somehow completely dry despite being dead to the world.

Enough was enough. Something had to be done, and the Doctor was determined to get to the bottom this.

* * *

A/N: Thought of this today while I was trying to take a nap. Here I am, not even finished with my first fanfiction, and starting another. Geesh. I'm not sure where this is going yet, but this was too fantastic to not post. We'll see what happens, I guess.

Also, I'm not Steven Moffat, so I do not own these characters, unfortunately... but then again, I also don't profit from the emotional torment of my devoted fans. So, ya'know, upside.


	2. Chapter Two

His poor, darling Impossible Girl was in terrible need of mending. The whole mess was terrifying and unsettling. He could have dealt with night terrors, or hallucinations, or any manner of unpleasant thing that results from post-traumatic stress. However, her disposition was as cheerful and spunky as ever. It was as if she did not have the faintest clue what was occurring at night- how she was wandering the corridors, or perhaps, how the TARDIS was being cheeky. He had not quite sussed that out yet. The Doctor feared informing her of this strange new habit. What would happen if her brain was conscious of it? If the Doctor was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, and if Clara was going to work through her trauma, they needed a respite, and the Doctor knew just the place for a little slice of serenity.

"I have to admit, this is exactly what I needed—" Clara mumbled around a mouth full of Jammy Dodger, legs sprawled out across the plaid blanket serving as their picnic table, her un-biscuited hand stretched behind her for propping purposes, "For the first time in weeks I don't feel like my head is reeling."

"Many people say the Eye of Orion is the most tranquil place in the Universe," he poured them cups of tea from a silver thermos, "It's because of the positive ions continually bombarding the planet."

That was understandable. She felt very at ease here, almost at home. Perhaps, it was also the endless, rolling green hills and crumbling stoneworks reminding her of Lancashire.

"Well, whatever ever spacey-wacey hocus pocus it is, it feels splendid," she smiled at the Doctor, toasting her tea cup with his.

Her brightness and levity was comforting to him, which made it harder to broach the topic he had been avoiding.

"Clara," he tried not to seem like he was hesitating, despite bracing himself for the inevitable backlash, "how have you been sleeping lately?"

A shift in her features from pleased to annoyed told him that he would indeed have to brace for impact, "Aaaaand, here it comes…"

Pushing herself off the ground, a heavy sigh escaped her lips as she scooped up a football she had found stashed away in a box in the Companion Room, alongside a set of keys with a spanner keychain and a photo of the Doctor being carried on the shoulders of a footballers. Yes, yes, she had been snooping, but what secrets could the Doctor possibly hide from her at this point that she probably did not already know about? Besides, what else was she supposed to do? In the days that followed the time stream incident, the Doctor had put her on what he had affectionately deemed "_TARDIS arrest_" (and, she had more appropriately deemed "_lockdown_"), while he had run an indeterminable amount of tests on her physiology and cognitive reasoning.

_"For God's sake, Clara!"_ he had shouted when she had protested on day four of being a laboratory rat, _"We have no idea what the side effects of sauntering through my time stream might be on human anatomy and mental acuteness! Do you want to end up with a Time Head?"_

At that Clara scrunched up her face, eyes pointed and wide with concern, _"What is a Time Head?"_

_"Never mind,"_ he waved the idea away dismissively, coming over to where she leaned on the consul, his features heavy with worry. Taking her hands from her lap into his, he held them together covering them with his own. Eyes dropped, unable to meet hers, he admitted, _"I just.. could not live with myself if what you did for me had some terrible consequence. Especially, if there is something I could do to stop it."_

_"I know," _she forced a weak smile, knowing his actions were well intended, "_but, seriously, what is a Time Head?"_

His response had been to simply bop her nose, and return to deciphering the test results.

Eventually, he determined that she was healthy, and no discernable effects had been detected, so he had stopped running the tests, at least to her knowledge. But, she still was very interested to know just what the bloody hell was a _Time Head_, and what the likeliness was that she might develop one.

"Here _what_ comes?" he asked, feigning ignorance and innocence, bringing her thoughts back to the present.

Spinning the ball in her fingers, flinging it out a ways in front of her, chasing it as she gave her exasperated reply without looking at the Doctor, "…The part where we talk about Trenzalore."

Standing, crossing his arms, he said, "What you experienced was extremely traumatic, Clara. Dealing with trauma requires therapy, and that requires talking about it."

"Tranquility. Positive ions," she spun around putting the pieces together, hands indignantly on her hips and football pinched between her two feet, "Is this supposed to be Rehab?"

He sighed walking towards her, slowly mind you, hands up in surrender, "Come now, Clara, don't be like that. I just wanted to give you a little peace of mind. You have no idea how-"

"I know how massive this was—I know weight of it!" she interrupted, gesturing frantically for emphasis, "We crossed your lost regeneration. Don't you think I understand the significance of the fact that he—"

The Doctor pressed his index finger to her lips silencing her, "Don't you dare, Clara. Don't remind me of what he did. I have spent the last part of my life trying to forget."

"Well, isn't that lovely for you, getting to forget," she spat a little more roughly than perhaps she had intended, kicking the ball off his shin, "Look, Doctor, while I appreciate your attentiveness lately, it's starting to feel a bit like hovering."

Flicking the ball up with the toe of his boot, he said nothing in reply, merely bouncing it from one thigh to the other, and back again a few more times. He meant it to look impressive. When he finally did speak, it was only to suggest a change in the subject, "You're right… fancy a game of football, then?" a smile crept onto his face, memories of recent past filling his head with pleasant thoughts for once, "You have quite a powerful hook, if the side of my head remembers correctly."

She wanted to pull a face, give him the cold shoulder and skulk away until he got the message she needed some space, if only for a few minutes. But, the apologetic look in his bright hazel eyes tore a hole in her resolve. Bloody, positive ions, making her feel passive and forgiving. By the time they actually started their game it had taken them a half an hour to determine the boundaries and the goals—that tree was too far away, and those two rocks were too close together…

"Alright, what's the score again?" he clapped his hands together loudly, rubbing them menacingly.

"We're not keeping score, remember?" Clara reminded him flatly.

"By my count," his eyes looked to the sky, adding up numbers in the air, clearly he was ignoring her comment, "if I make this penalty shot, its twenty-seven to two."

"Three," she corrected, "You're forgetting the one you kicked in the goal yourself."

"That was a mulligan."

The Doctor was so competitive. She had never met anyone that was worse at winning than they were at losing, but even that for the Doctor was a thin line. Scraping her canvas trainers across the grass like a raging bull, Clara was determined it would stay twenty-six to a negotiable _three. _Poised between him and the goal, she stretched her arms out to snag the ball if it came within range.

"You can't use your hands there, Clara," the Doctor pointed out with more than a hint of patronization, pointing to the line she had yet to cross, "You have to be past the stick."

Alright, forget the impending twenty-seventh goal- now he was getting it.

The Doctor broke towards the makeshift goal, and Clara broke towards the Doctor. Dropping her shoulder, which had more often than not gotten her into trouble during Year Ten in Physical Education, she clipped him unexpectedly. They smashed into each other rather ungracefully, and seeing as he was the being with greater mass, he came crashing down on top of her for trouble.

Proximity, oh, this was an issue. Especially considering how radiant she looked with her shining walnut colored hair splashed about her head and her eyes twinkling from suppressed laughter. His hands! Where the hell were his hands? Good Gods, one was on her breast! The Doctor was always overly, sometimes inappropriately affectionate, especially with strangers. But, this? This was not just platonic kisses of admiration or impressment—this was perilous, because _this…_ was something _else. _

_Oh, you mystery wrapped in an enigma squeezed in a skirt that's just… a little bit… too tight._ He had known it then, and he had tried like hell to repress it. Dangerous, that—falling in love. Look at the mess he had made with River. In the Dark Days, when it was all Vastra, Jenny, and Strax could do to even get him to care about the fate of humanity, he had decided he certainly could not affix that kind of emotional attachment to one, measly person. That's why he vowed that he would never, ever do it again.

Then again, her skin looked so irresistibly touchable from this vantage point.

_Shut up, Brain—you work for me_.

Restraining himself from reaching out to caress her cheek, he discovered much to his discontent that Lefty was still resting on her breast. He snapped it up awkwardly. He thought it better to not even know the location of Righty—it felt precariously close to a thigh. Clara noticed it too, her amused twinkling turning into a flirtatious glint.

"Hello, Sweetie," she winked, wiggling underneath him, torturously.

Upon her words, it felt like all the oxygen had been evacuated from the atmosphere.

"What… what did you just say?" he stuttered.

She gave him a perplexed look, giving her head a subtle but detectable shake like she had to clear her own head, "I said _'Hello, Doctor!'_" her voice sounded hoarse now, as she tried to wiggle from underneath him, "You're crushing my lungs."

"Oh. Yes. Right. Sorry," he literally leapt away from her, "I think… between the football and… the ions," he panted, "we've been exposed to more than enough bombardment for today."

"Could not agree more," she nodded, heaving short breaths to refill her deflated lungs.

"Go on up," he threw his head in the general direction of the TARDIS, "I'll take care of all this."

"You sure?" she gave him a slightly suspicious look, "Everything all right?"

"Perfect. Cross my hearts," he smiled, drawing two X's over his chest, "Just trying to be a gentleman. That's not a crime, is it?" he paused, but really not long enough to allow her to answer, "Well, actually on Salfax 4 it is a crime… feminist bunch, that lot."

Apparently Clara was not interested in a good story, because she left in the middle of his sentence. And, honestly, it should have been him asking her the question of whether or not she was fine. He knew what he heard, and it only ripened the mystery of what was going on in the mind of his Impossible Girl.

* * *

A/N: Two notes of interest-

Firstly-for any British readers, if I have misappropriated any of your slang, I apologize for my wretched American understanding of your wonderful lexicon. That also goes for your educational system- I'm only 50% sure you even have physical education across The Pond. While I am a Social Studies teacher here in The States, my knowledge of your system is pretty much based on cursory Google searches and having seen every episode of _The Inbetweeners. _Not exactly the best points of reference_._

Secondly- to my astonishment, this just may end up with some semblance of a plot... but, I'm to going to hold my breath just yet.


	3. Chapter Three

A new nightmare was unraveling behind her eyelids. She had memorized her nightmares, which only made them worse—the helpless impossibility of knowing the outcome and being powerless to stop it. For every dozen times she had to relive one of her sacrifices to save the Doctor, the occasional twist came when she would relive the one in a dozen times she had failed at the task, and the emergence of his next incarnation sprang forth.

This dream was unknown to her though. Trapped in an endless maze of TARDIS corridors, chasing the back of the Doctor in his navy trousers and his indigo jacket, his lapels snapping in his wake, always meters out of her reach despite his casual pace and her racing steps. Shouting his name to no avail, desperate to get his attention, he tried his other name. Not the one she knew brought him such dishonor and resentment, but the nickname she had given him in their days after Trenzalore to signify he was her Doctor, to separate him from all his former countenances.

"Eleven!"

Finally acknowledging her shouts, he stopped and turned, half shadowed by the uneven light of the hallway fixtures, and retraced his step back towards her. As he passed under the red wash of one of the lights the glow illuminated a head of silver hair and she met the eyes of a stranger. This was not her Doctor—not the Doctor she loved and had died a hundred times over just to once more see the sparkle of his smiling hazel eyes. Yet, she knew instantly he was the Doctor, despite never having seen this face. How she knew though, that she could not explain.

"Doctor?" she whispered cautiously.

"Soon," he replied.

A wrenching shriek rebounded off the metal walls filling the corridor, and she recognized it as belonging her Doctor. She turned instinctively towards the noise, but when she turned back the stranger Doctor was gone. The screaming continued. Her footfalls rang like cannon fire as she drew nearer to the noise, and she could see a golden aura spilling into the hall from a room around the last corner. It made her stomach lurch—she knew its significance all too well, and she came to a stunned halt at the entrance of the Console Room.

Buckled at the waist, gripping the railing for support, the Doctor wailed in pain as golden tendrils of energy curled like smoke from his skin.

"No, Eleven!" she raced towards him knowing she could not switch places with him this time, "I can't lose you yet!"

"Clara! NO!" he thrust out his hands to stop her just as the eruption of regeneration energy burst forth.

* * *

The sound was enough to stop his hearts, and he instinctively pulled his sonic from his pocket, charging towards Clara's horrendous screams. They seemed to be radiating through the TARDIS' systems like an amplifier. Panic gripped him as he came upon the scene in the Console Room—the TARDIS' doors flung wide open, Clara standing in the open expanse screaming towards the red dwarf they were circling, backlit by its fading light.

"No, Eleven!" she cried painfully, "I can't lose you yet!"

Upon her words she let go of the door handles and threw herself towards the light.

"Clara! NO!"

Fallen from his hand, the Sonic Screwdriver bounced and clanked against the floor just as her body caught the weightlessness of the vacuum of space. With grips of death in both hands, the Doctor tethered their floating bodies to TARDIS with his left hand while his right hand clasp her narrow wrist. Exhaling his held breath, he mentally thanked the Old Girl for her timely extension of the environmentals into a bubble around the open door. Frozen with fear he watched the undulating waves of Clara's hair and nightgown, so reminiscent of his long lost Pond, reminding him of the ever present importance of keeping this one safe.

Counting to three, the Doctor yanked Clara into his embrace, holding his breath again when he had to release the door handle to catch her, banking on his split second calculation that the resulting momentum would fling them back into the safety of the TARDIS. Once again at the mercy of gravity, they smashed against the floor as the doors slammed shut behind them locking immediately. Splayed out on his back, still pressing his hand against her cheek to hold her head against one of his braces, he exhaled his second held breath with exasperation.

His mind was racing with the million and a half ways that terrifying experience could have ended without her safely in his arms inside the TARDIS, and the fear pinched the air in his lungs, stinging and burning his chest. At the thought of coming so close to losing her again he closed his eyes, pressing a long kiss to the crown of her head. She could whinge all she liked, but as soon as she woke up they were having a very serious conversation about what the hell was happening, and if she was anything less than honest, he was going to blow a gasket. Then again, what right did he have to be angry at all? This was his fault. He had no one to be angry at but himself for letting her go into his time stream in the first place. A cursory Sonic scan did not tell him much more than she was unconscious, so he once again settled for depositing her back in her room and keeping his vigil.

* * *

The Doctor was not amused. Clara did not seem as small and light after a vexing fifteen minute search for her room. The TARDIS had chosen a poor moment to throw one of her tantrums, and the Doctor huffed as he readjusted Clara's dead weight in his numb arms, prickling from stifled circulation.

"That's it, Sexy! This is your last chance!" sliding down the wall to sit against it, "I'm begging—please give me a room to put Clara, or I swear on the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades that things are going to get ugly!"

No reply came to his request.

Gently placing Clara on the floor, he wrung his hands in agitation, "I warned you!" he pulled open the nearest wall circuit panel, "You really brought this on yourself, you know," and yanked loose a handful of wires.

The TARDIS whirred angrily.

"Don't like that, eh? Well, I'm just getting started!" he growled, "Oh! Doesn't this look important!"

Another handful of frayed wires snapped from their connections. Sexy responded by shocking him when he reached for the next lot, followed by a cascade of sparks, which produced a short round of cursing in Gallifreyan, but he soldiered on.

"Oh no! Please stop!" he raised the pitch of his voice like a girl, mocking the TARDIS, "Not that one!"

The defeated sound of an unlatching door came from behind him. He freed the wires he had targeted with a proud, satisfied smirk. Taking Clara back into his arms, he turned to take her into what he assumed would be her room.

He assumed wrong.

"Well played, Sexy…" he sighed, the smirk falling from his face as he looked into his own bedroom.


End file.
